


another shot at life

by kadaransmuggler



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Warden Tamlen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 08:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadaransmuggler/pseuds/kadaransmuggler
Summary: Ciáran Mahariel is tired of losing things.





	another shot at life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YuriSuzu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuriSuzu/gifts).



> the third and final fic from my giveaway! i loved writing this fic-it was lovely getting to explore Ciáran. i hope i got him right

At night, Ciáran Mahariel dreams. It is a long journey from the depths of the Brecilian forest to the ruins of Ostagar, and he had never traveled quite so far without being surrounded by his clan. Now, he only had Duncan, and it was almost like being alone. And this long distance meant there were many nights for him to dream.

  
While he was awake, it was easy to put his mind on what was to come. Duncan wasn’t the most talkative man, but he answered Ciáran’s questions readily enough, and Ciáran had many questions. He had only had a scattered handful of interactions with humans before, and much of them were hostile. He knew little of human culture and society, and he figured if he was to live with the Wardens, for the time being, he should know a little of what to expect.

  
He got the feeling the Duncan was left vaguely amused by all the questions.

  
Ciáran couldn’t ask questions in his sleep, however. At first, his dreams were nightmares. They all started off innocently enough- a drowsy day two summers ago, lounging by the river with Tamlen; a cold winter night huddled under a blanket with Tamlen, watching it snow; the first time he’d ever gone hunting with Tamlen; the day he and Tamlen had gotten their vallaslin. As the dreams wore on, though, it always changed. Tamlen, with black Taint creeping along his veins. Tamlen, with an arrow sticking out of his throat. Tamlen, and a mirror that shouldn’t be there. Tamlen, and what he hadn’t been able to stop.

  
Sometimes when he dreamt, Tamlen wasn’t there at all. Those dreams were the worst. He spent those dreams searching for Tamlen, calling out to him. There was never an answer. When he woke up, he was more tired than he had been when he had gone to sleep.

  
At the edge of the forest, the dreams began to change. There were some nights where he still had the nightmares, nights where he woke up calling for Tamlen, reaching for him in the dark. If Duncan noticed, he never said. But there were some nights that were different. Some nights, he dreamt of the things Duncan had told him. Ostagar, towering over the wilds surrounding it. Denerim, bright in the pale morning sun. Orzammar, a red-orange glow from the lava that Duncan said lit the city.

  
Those were the dreams that reminded Ciáran why he was here, aside from the Taint coursing through his veins. He had wanted to see the world a little, and Marethari had encouraged him. The only thing missing was Tamlen, but if they couldn’t explore the rest of the world together, then Ciáran would have to experience enough of it for the both of them. 

* * *

Ostagar is bustling, for a ruin. It makes it easier to avoid thoughts of the last ruin Ciáran had been in. It also helped that it was an entirely different sort of ruin than the one he and Tamlen had found in the Brecilian forest. That ruin had been elven, even with human designs mingled in. Ostagar had belonged to Tevinter. This ruin also showed signs of upkeep. The army had shored up defenses in preparation for the coming battle. It had been turned into a lively camp- it was a far cry from the harrowing stillness of the ruins he’d found with Tamlen. There was no mirror here, and the only thing Tainted was Ciáran himself.

  
King Cailan greets them as they enter the camp. Ciáran tilts his head to the side, watching and observing. He lets Duncan do most of the talking, only speaking up with the King speaks to him directly. His first thought is that the King holds Duncan, and the rest of the Wardens, in great esteem. His second thought is that the King maybe looks at the Wardens as a way to find personal glory, rather than the solution to a problem. His third thought is that the King does not seem very much like a king. Cailan looks like a child playing war, and from the conversations he has had with Duncan, Ciáran is sure that Ferelden doesn’t need somebody to play at war. They need somebody to win a war. And even Ciáran has heard stories of Teryn Loghain. The Hero of River Dane, fierce in battle. He wondered if he’d get to meet him. Perhaps Loghain would be more competent than the young king.

  
He is glad when Cailan leaves them, dragged away to some meeting or other. He is glad to be rid of the man, and the journey has left him exhausted- he isn’t sure if it is because he’s unused to traveling, or if it is because of the Taint. Either way, Ciáran is eager for the Joining. He does, however, appreciate the chance to take a moment to catch his breath. He wouldn’t have said no to a hot meal and a warm bath, either. It had been a long trip, after all.

  
Duncan leaves him alone at the bridge leading to the camp proper, with instructions not to leave and to find another Warden named Alistair at some point. He’d taken his sword with him as well, once Ciáran agreed that he didn’t need the heavy weight on his back in the camp. The Warden pointed out where he could find the mess hall (which was really just a massive tent set up in the middle of the camp), the latrines (pits on the very edge of the camp that that stank so badly there were no tents within ten feet of it), and the baths (several tents grouped together with roaring fires outside constantly heating water). With the hot midday sun beating down upon him and instructions only to be back by evening, Ciáran finds that he has time to do exactly what he wanted- explore. 

* * *

He finds the kennels first. He’d never seen a mabari hound before, and after checking to make sure nobody was around to yell at him, he crept closer to the fence, wrapping his fingers around the worn wood and peering into the enclosure. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting- Duncan had spoken of dogs, and Ciáran had of course known what they were before, but he hadn’t expected them to be quite so large. Or so docile, although the one he had his eye on looked rather sickly instead of passive.

  
“It’s a shame, isn’t it? That one over there caught the darkspawn sickness,” says a voice behind him. Ciáran jumps, hastily letting go of the fence to step back, but it’s only the kennel master, hefting a sack of food over his shoulder for the hounds.

  
“Is there anything that can be done for him?” Ciáran asks, tentatively. He had the darkspawn sickness himself, after all, and he doubted that Duncan would want to put a dog through the Joining, if it was even possible.

  
“There is a flower, out in the wilds. White petals, red center. If you’re headed out there anytime soon, pick a few of them. They grow in damp places, and I’ll compensate you for them,” the kennel master says, exhausted. Ciáran thinks the kennel master doesn’t really expect him to go into the wilds, or to bring him the flowers if he does. But Ciáran looks back at the hound, and doesn’t want to see the poor thing die.

  
“Is there anything I could do now? To make him comfortable or anything?” Ciáran asks, fingers curling around the fence posts again.

  
“Actually, yes. I’ve been hearing about a new Warden recruit, and I’d wager that it’s you. If that’s the case, could you slip this muzzle on him? I don’t think he’ll bite, but if he does, the Wardens are immune to the Taint,” the kennel master says, leaning over the fence and taking a muzzle from a hook on the door, holding it out to him. Ciáran takes it, and the kennel master unlocks the door to let him slip inside.

  
He crouches down next to the dog’s head. It looks at him, panting heavily, before letting out a soft whine. Ciáran reaches out, running his fingers through the dog’s fur.

  
“Easy, boy,” he murmurs, and the dog offers no resistance when he slips the muzzle over his head. He spends another moment kneeling at the dog’s head, running his fingers soothingly over the dog’s flank before he stands, slipping back out of the gate. The kennel master slips him a handful of coppers and reminds him about the flowers as Ciáran slips away. 

* * *

Ciáran finds the quartermaster next. Master Ilen had made sure to polish his greatsword and armor for him until it gleamed before he left. He’d given him small Dalish daggers to keep too, tucked away in his boots. He’d consider himself well-supplied if it came down to it, but he was running low on polish for his sword, and he supposed the quartermaster might have some more. He waits in line, ears twitching as he picks up all the sounds of Ostagar. It was so nosy here, with more people than he’d ever seen in his life. It was not at all like the home he had left.

  
“Oi, you there. The lieutenant’s things are ready, grab that bundle right there and take it to him,” the quartermaster says. It takes Ciáran a moment to realize the man is talking to him, and another moment to realize that the man thinks he’s a servant.

  
“Excuse me?” Ciáran asks, arms crossed over his chest as he shifts his stance. He wishes he hadn't given his sword to Duncan after all- none who saw him wear it would mistake him for a servant.   
“Are you daft? I asked you to deliver a package,” the quartermaster says, and Ciáran realizes that his hands have curled into fists.

  
“Believe it or not, but not all elves are servants. I thought my vallaslin would give me away,” he snaps, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was a little less intimidating without the sword hanging heavy on his back, but there was little else he could do without it save resorting to violence. He doubted Duncan would appreciate it if he started hitting the man in the middle of the camp.   
“Vallaslin?” the quartermaster asks, seemingly dumbfounded that Ciáran was not who he had thought he was.

  
“The blood writing on my face, shem,” Ciáran spits back, anger coiled along the base of his spine and in the stoop of his shoulders. He had thought- well, he wasn't sure what he had thought, but he had expected a different sort of welcome. The kennel master had recognized him as what he was, likely in the way he held himself. It never occurred to him that the quartermaster might not.   
“I...suppose that makes you the new Warden recruit. What can I get you?” the quartermaster asks, finally, after a moment of staring at him like he couldn't comprehend him.

  
“Oh, finally realized I’m not a servant? Creators, shem like you are the reason my clan had to keep moving. First, it’s assuming we’re all workers beneath you, and then it’s harassing us, and then it’s attacking our hunters,” he snaps. He had known that humans and elves had their differences- it was part of many of the elven stories, passed down through the ages. They were the last of the elvhen. Never again would they forget. But knowing is different from seeing and feeling, and the first human Ciáran had had any extended time with was Duncan.

  
“I apologize for my mistake, ser. There are a lot of elven servants serving in Ostagar, too many for me to know them all. I can tell my mistake has offended you- if there’s something you need, I’ll give it to you at a discounted rate,” the quartermaster says, just short of pleading.

  
“I only needed polish for my armor and sword,” Ciáran says, after a moment had passed. The truce between them was tentative at best. The quartermaster seems relieved to finally find a request, and scrambles to shift through his wares to produce a tub of the polish.

  
“Only a couple coppers,” the quartermaster says, almost nervous as he holds the polish out to Ciáran. He’d collected a few silvers, and Duncan had given him some coin as well, in case he needed some supplies. It was easy enough to count the coin out and pass it over, accepting the tub of polish warily.

  
When Ciáran turns to go, he ignores the man’s faux-pleasant farewell. He could feel the weight of his glare between his shoulder blades, and the first truth of the world outside his clan began to settle in. He was an elf in a world for humans- he would have to work twice as hard and be twice as good for half the respect. 

* * *

Alistair is not as hard to find as Ciáran had been fearing. Duncan had given him a brief description of the man- brown skin and brown hair, more recognizable by his wit than anything else. He supposed that was what let him find the man, after all. The Warden was embroiled in an argument with a mage as Ciáran approached, hanging back politely until the mage stormed off.

  
“I don’t suppose you’d be another mage?” Alistair sighs, looking him over.

  
“No,” he says, and Alistair seems to brighten considerably and then the conversation moves forward.

  
He doesn’t mention the pointed ears, doesn’t so much as let his gaze linger on them.

  
Ciáran thinks he’s the best person he’s met since arriving at Ostagar. 

* * *

The Tower of Ishal is swarming with darkspawn, and Ciáran is reminded of different ruins and different darkspawn (although who can really tell, when it comes to darkspawn) and someone different by his side. There’s two more dead where Ciáran survived, and he can’t say that he liked Daveth or Jory, but Creators, he wonders why it wasn’t him. Why it was Daveth that died in the Joining, why it was Tamlen who touched the mirror, why it was Ciáran who was found when Tamlen was still lost.

  
He doesn’t know how many more people he can watch die when he manages to survive.

  
The darkspawn don’t stop coming either. Ciáran swings his sword until his arms ache from it, and the mage accompanying them sends gentle pulses of healing magic into his sore muscles (it is something that makes him think of Merrill, with a sunny smile, always ready to help). He keeps swinging his sword until they make it to the top of the tower and Ciáran stares down at the ogre, bleeding and exhausted. It hurts to raise his sword, but he does it anyway and steels himself for the ogre’s charge.

  
It is the hardest fight Ciáran has ever been in, and that includes the skirmishes he’d been in when he was Tainted and weak (he still remembers how Merrill had stopped him on the way back to the ruin, hands fluttering like the wings of a bird as she fusses over him, scared of losing him like they’d lost Tamlen, except it wouldn’t really be the same, would it? They didn’t even find Tamlen’s body, and Creators, Ciáran regrets so much).

  
It is a joint effort that brings the ogre down. It had picked the mage up, raised it high in the air and roared a challenge to the vaulted stone ceilings high above. Alistair had charged the ogre’s front, shield discarded several feet away, bent and broken and useless, and Ciáran had charged the ogre’s back, sword swinging true and severing tendons in the leg. The ogre falls, dropping the mage in an ungraceful heap (Ciáran’s heart is in his throat as he watches the man, wonders if it’s someone else he’ll have to watch die when he survives) but he scrambles to his feet quick enough, even if he looks dazed.

  
Ciáran lights the beacon with a torch from the wall and arms that shake from the strain of the extended fight up the tower. He turns to Alistair, a weary grin on his face, and he thinks for a moment that they’ve done it. They’ve lit the beacon and signaled the army and now their job is done and they can rest until a messenger comes from them.

  
Seconds later, the door to the chamber caves inward with a clatter. Ciáran barely has time to pick up his sword, muscles screaming, before the horde is upon them. He fights until he can fight no longer, and when he falls, he catches sight of Alistair a few feet away from him, almost close enough to touch. His eyes shut, and the last thing he knows is the sound of the mage screaming. 

* * *

Ciáran wakes up. It is not the first time he has woken up in a soft bed after a mishap with darkspawn, but it is just as surprising. This time, however, he does not wake to familiar surroundings. He is in a one-room hut. There is another bed aside from the one he is currently in, and a fire burns in the hearth. Though it is small, it is clear that it is a home.

  
He has just barely sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, when the witch he had met before enters. Morrigan, he remembers.

  
The witch tells him of the defeat at Ostagar. Of how the Teryn quit the field. Of how everyone is dead.

  
Ciáran does not know why he keeps surviving these great and terrible things. At least Alistair is waiting for him outside. This time, he had not survived alone. This time, when he leaves, Alistair goes with him, and Morrigan trails behind them. 

* * *

Lothering is a small village. Ciáran does what he can before they move on. If someone had told him earlier that morning he’d be leaving with a Chantry sister, a Qunari convicted of murder, and the dog he’d helped cure back in Ostagar, Ciáran wouldn’t have believed them. As it is, he hardly believes it now.

  
They walk until night falls. When they set up camp, Leliana sings by the campfire, and Ciáran finds that it is easier to breathe. Perhaps it was not so hopeless after all. 

* * *

That night, he takes his armor off methodically. He cleans the blood off carefully before setting his armor aside. He has just managed to pull his sword onto his lap when Alistair flops to the ground next to him.

  
“Want to help me polish my sword?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  
“You are the worst,” Alistair declares, but both of them laugh for the first time since Ostagar. 

* * *

Ciáran was not sure what he was expecting when he arrived at the Circle Tower. Perhaps something a bit less terrible than what he had found. Perhaps he had expected to stroll in and present the Knight-Commander with the treaties and be off with the promise of mages to help him. He had not, however, expected to find the tower overrun by demons, the Knight-Commander calling for the Rite of Annulment.

  
Ostagar had shown him this wouldn’t be easy, but Ciáran hadn’t thought it would be this hard.

  
“Let me go in. I’ll take care of it,” he promises, rolling his shoulders. It takes him a few minutes to convince the Knight-Commander, and while he’s busy, Alistair buys all the stamina potions he can find.

  
When the heavy metal doors close behind them, locking with a sound that echoes in the still hallway, it has a terrible sense of finality to it. Ciáran wonders if he will ever leave the tower. 

* * *

It is not so bad, for the most part. He’s grateful for Wynne’s assistance- Morrigan wasn’t a healer, and they only had so many potions they could take. Ciáran would say it’s almost easy, carving through the demons and abominations. Compared to Ostagar it is an easy fight. It is getting easier, too, to walk past the corpses.

  
That changes when they reach the sloth demon. Ciáran is asleep before he hits the floor. 

* * *

When Ciáran wakes up, the first thing he notices is that the air seems fuzzy. The second thing he notices is that he is on a bed of soft green grass. Grass? He can't quite remember how he got here, and thinking about it only leaves him with a headache, so he puts it aside. He sits up, blinking his eyes open.

  
Sunshine streams through the tree canopy above, looking like liquid gold when it meets the sparkling river a few feet away. He realizes instantly that he is back in the Brecilian forest. Back home.   
He hears rustling behind him, branches snapping underfoot. He turns, movements slow and sluggish, like he’s wading through honey. Tamlen steps out of the bushes, a bright smile on his face as he plops himself down in front of Ciáran.

  
“Tamlen? What are you doing here?” he asks, incredulously. He tries not to think about the ruins and the mirror- he would try anything to bring Tamlen back to him. He knows it with a painful certainty that curls around his ribs and settles just behind his heart. If Tamlen is here, it is enough. If Tamlen is here, Ciáran has learned to be brave. Brave enough to hold his hand around the campfire, brave enough kiss him. He has had enough of regretting that he hadn't.

  
“Don't you remember, vhenan? When you ended the Blight, you came home to find that Keeper had cured me. Duncan had been wrong. Her magic was enough,” he said, that familiar crooked grin on his face. Ciáran could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Tamlen without that grin. None of them had been good.

  
“I...ended the Blight?” he asks, brow furrowed. Wouldn't he have remembered? Why couldn't he remember? He remembered Morrigan and Alistair, Zevran, Sten and Leliana. Wynne. The dog, too. But he couldn't remember what had happened.

  
“Yes, silly! You saved the world. They wanted to make you a big hero, keep you in their palaces, but you wanted to come home. And it’s a good thing you did! If I’d had to wait much longer, I”d have come and dragged you away. Now, are you hungry? We could go back to camp and eat,” he says, ever eager and energetic. Creators, but Ciáran has missed him.

  
“That would be nice,” he says. He lets Tamlen pull him to his feet and lead him through the forest. They pass the pen of halla that blink lazily at them, watching them pass. The camp is empty, until they reach the center of it.

  
It seems that half the clan is gathered around the fire. They greet him warmly, and Zevran pulls him into his lap to press a kiss to his cheek. Morrigan scoffs, and the crooked grin doesn't fade from Tamlen’s face as he sits down next to him once more. Wait. Wasn't Tamlen bothered by it? Ciáran had never gotten to be so open with his affections with Tamlen. It was one of the things he most regretted. And why was Morrigan here?

  
“I’d stop questioning if I were you, _mi amor_ ,” Zevran purrs in his ear. Doubt threatens to swallow him whole.

  
“Tis a dangerous thing,” Morrigan agrees. Why would Morrigan agree to stay with the clan? She didn't even stay in the camp with everyone else. She set up her own tent.

  
“Aren't you happy, vhenan? Can't you just enjoy what you have?” Tamlen asks. He thinks, for a moment, that he should. He should stop questioning how he got there, why everyone else is there. Why he’s sitting in Zevran’s lap and not with Tamlen. Why Tamlen is calling him vhenan anyway.

  
He’s safe. He could be happy, if he stopped wondering. It was everything he wanted, bundled up into a present and given freely to him. Creators, but he knew exactly how hard it was to find that happiness.

  
He looks at Morrigan again. He remembers, suddenly, a book he had found in the First Enchanter’s office. Black leather embossed with an oak tree on the cover, pages yellowed from use. It had been Flemeth’s. She had told him about it as they stood on the docks, asked him if he could help her find it.

  
He had put it in his pack, to give to her once they left the tower. He remembered the tower. He remembered Sloth, too. Gentle urging to fall asleep.

  
That made more sense, then. This wasn't real. Tamlen was still gone, and all of them were spirits or demons or had been pulled from his memories.

  
Tamlen snarls. Zevran and Morrigan and the others disappear, and Tamlen’s skin splits and falls away, disappearing before it hits the ground, revealing a shade.

  
“You should have been happy with what I gave you,” it snarls. Ciáran reaches for his greatsword and cleaves it in two. The forest around him fades away. He shoulders his sword and steps through the portal that appears. 

* * *

It is not easy to dispatch the demon’s lieutenants, but Ciáran manages. It is strange, to walk the Beyond so easily. Is this what it was like for Merrill? 

* * *

He finds his friends next. When he tells them it is only a dream, his voice is gentle. One by one he leads them out of the demon's clutches.

* * *

The demon does not die easily, but it dies. Ciáran had been the one to strike the final blow. 

* * *

Ciáran wakes up. Everyone is quiet and subdued as they make their way up the final stories of the tower. He finds a Templar in a cage, begging for an annulment.

  
When he leaves the harrowing chamber, it is with the First Enchanter and a dozen surviving mages. The Templar doesn’t seem happy, but Ciáran had seen the children downstairs. The mages that remained had been imprisoned and tormented too. Killing them would have been a cruelty, and Ciáran turns to look at the bars over the windows and the heavy iron doors and the bodies littering the corridors and thinks the mages have seen enough cruelty to last an age.

  
When he leaves the Circle tower behind, he hopes he will never have to see it again. 

* * *

There is an assassin waiting for them on the road. It is not an easy fight- there are dozens of them, and the assassin himself is a skilled man. Eventually, though Ciáran and the others come out on top. Wynne heals their wounds and Ciáran welcomes the assassin into the group.

  
There’s a lot of mixed reactions. He thinks about telling them to do it themselves if they didn’t like it. In the end, though, he just makes sure everyone is okay and then sets out once more, the assassin falling into step beside him. 

* * *

Sometimes, sitting around the campfire, Ciáran will draw. He does not have paper and he does not have anything so fancy as paints or charcoals, but it had never stopped him before. Instead, he sketches in the dirt, sometimes with his fingers and often with a stick.

  
Sometimes, when Ciáran’s back is turned away from his drawings, Leliana will creep closer to look at them. 

* * *

Ciáran hears rumors that the Arl of Redcliffe is ill. He’d met with the knight back in Redcliffe, remembers the search for Andraste’s ashes. He tells Alistair that it will be better to arrive in Redcliffe with a cure for Eamon at the ready, and Alistair is persuaded easily enough.

  
They follow the trail until it points to a village named Haven.

  
At night, Zevran slips into Ciáran’s tent. Ciáran finds it is nice to not be alone (there’s a part that always reaches for Tamlen instead of Zevran, a traitorous piece of his heart that Ciáran doesn’t know how to contain because Creators, Tamlen meant so much to him and he never showed enough of it and now he’s gone). 

* * *

Ciáran finds that Morrigan is good company. She does not insist on all the pleasantries that the shemlen do, and he does not have to wonder if he is making eye contact at the right time or missing some other social cue that he didn’t know about. Admittedly, that was typically only a problem with the nobility and authority figures, but he still liked Morrigan.

  
Mostly, they sit together in peaceful silence. Morrigan works at making potions or mending her clothing or reading the grimoire he’d picked up in Kinloch and given to her. Ciáran polishes his sword (he never stops making jokes about it when he can find the opportunity) or patches his armor or sharpens his weapons. It is a quiet end to a quiet day traveling, and he thinks both of them appreciate it.

  
They talk sometimes, though, and Ciáran likes Morrigan’s quick wit and acidic tongue. They’re friends, he realizes. It had been a gradual thing, a slow shift from walking side-by-side and talking to fill the quiet and break the monotony of the road to sitting together at camp. He was not with her when she read of how Flemeth extended her life (too busy with Zevran in his tent, with heated touches and stifled moans and it made the ache inside of him a little bit less. He still thought of Tamlen, but it was like a wound that was slowly scabbing over).

  
When she came to him, betrayal gleaming in golden eyes, he didn’t hesitate. If Flemeth planned to take over Morrigan’s body and Morrigan wished her dead so she couldn’t, then Ciáran would kill the old witch and bring Morrigan what peace he could. 

* * *

It was easy enough to make the detour back to Flemeth’s hut. Morrigan showed him the way through the Wilds until he found a familiar trail that would lead him to the hut. He left Morrigan behind, bringing Alistair and Zevran and Wynne and Leliana. He did not anticipate a terribly difficult fight- Flemeth may be a mage, but she was an old woman besides, and Alistair knew how to smite.   
He had not thought that Flemeth would resort to shapeshifting. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been expecting it, because Morrigan had already told him that Flemeth taught her, but even if he had expected it, he would have expected her to turn into a bear or a giant spider or a wolf or some other shape that Morrigan sometimes wore. He did not expect the dragon. At least it made it harder to think of her as an old woman when she was taller than the trees and breathed fire.

  
Wynne and Leliana ducked behind the hut, darting out to cast spells to needle away at the dragon. Ciáran and Alistair stood on opposite sides of the dragon, weapons hacking away at tough scales. Zevran darted around wherever he could, daggers tearing holes in her wings or slipping into her soft underbelly.

  
When Flemeth falls, Ciáran and Alistair are broken and bleeding and exhausted, but they are alive. Zevran is singed from the dragon’s fire, and Leliana’s arms ache from all the arrows she’d fired. Wynne had taken all of the lyrium potions she had with her, dredging through the final reserves of her mana to keep them standing at the end.

  
Picking the lock to the hut is a victory in itself. Ciáran takes the book from the chest, and begins the long walk back to Morrigan. 

* * *

It takes weeks on the road, but finally they make it to Haven. It is a quiet town nestled in the Frostback Mountains. The air is so cold it stings his lungs when he breathes in. The town is unsettling, still and hushed.

  
He finds an altar running with blood. Leliana cheerfully tells him that it is still fresh. Zevran pipes up to inform him that nobody could lose that much blood and survive.

  
Why couldn’t anything with humans ever be easy?

* * *

Ciáran is not surprised to find cultists in the Chantry. He wonders, before he cuts them down, if that says anything about the Chantry as a whole.

They find Brother Genitivi behind a hidden door.

At least they’re in the right place.

* * *

The Temple of Sacred Ashes is beautiful, for a ruin. Remarkably intact. There’s still a hushed silence over it, a foreboding that makes Ciáran want to turn around and go home. The last time he’d been in a ruin that felt like this, it hadn’t ended well (he remembers looking for Tamlen for hours until Merrill led him home, green eyes wide and sad. he remembers the dream in the Circle Tower and he wonders if there’s any chance that Tamlen ever made it home.)

  
Brother Genitivi waits at the entrance. Ciáran almost cracks a joke, but the ruins are too unsettling and that unsettling feeling is too familiar, so he just leads the way deeper into the ruins.   
It’s almost a relief when the first cultists show up, armed and armored. It takes away some of the hushed quiet that lingers, and it gives him something to focus on aside from the feeling that something is wrong.

  
He can almost pretend it’s just a routine fight against routine bandits that were too stupid to back away. Almost.

  
Until the cultists tell him they’ve got a dragon that is Andraste reborn and want him to poison the ashes of the real Andraste. That’s not routine, even for bandits.

  
Couldn’t one thing in this world be simple and straightforward? 

* * *

“Do you think you failed Tamlen?” The Guardian asks. Ciáran sucks in a breath and tries not to think about all of the ways he could have stopped Tamlen from touching the mirrors. Of all of the things he could have done, should have done, would do differently now.

  
“Yes,” he breathes, and he does not meet the eyes of his companions. When the Guardian steps aside to let them into the Gauntlet, Ciáran goes with stiff shoulders and an angry, defiant tilt to his jaw. 

* * *

Between all of them, the riddles are easy enough. When Ciáran steps into the room beyond, his friends vanish. He whirls around to look for them, and when he turns back around, Tamlen is standing in the middle of the room.

  
He looks like he always had. Tanned skin and bright eyes, vallaslin curving up on his cheekbones like a second smile.

  
“Tamlen,” he breathes, but he hangs back. Why would Tamlen be here, in a ruin untouched?

  
“Are you afraid of me, Ciáran?” he asks, head tilted to the side in a familiar gesture that aches.

  
“I’m never afraid of Tamlen,” he answers, voice whisper-quiet. Even now, there is something in him that wants to step forward. Something in him that wants to draw Tamlen close and tell him that he’s missed him so very much.

  
“But you do not think I am Tamlen,” is the reply, arms crossing over his chest.

“I was already tricked once. Can you blame me?” Ciáran asks, voice too light to hint at the heavy hurt settling in his bones.

  
“No, lethallin. Vhenan. But you spend too much time blaming yourself. It is not your fault,” Tamlen says, reaching out to him. A delicate silver chain is wrapped around his fingers, a teardrop pendant dangling down.

  
“Isn’t it?” Ciáran asks, bitter amusement in his voice. But he reaches up to take the necklace. It falls from Tamlen’s fingers into his open palm, curling into the center of it, teardrop pendant winking silver in the flickering torchlight.

  
“No, vhenan. You know me, better than anyone. I have always been rash and stubborn and reckless. If you had gone to get Keeper, I would have gone on without you. If you had stopped me from touching the mirror, I would not have left satisfied, and it would have caught me later. No, Ciáran. It is not your fault. It is time to let go and stop blaming yourself,” Tamlen says, reaching one hand out. Ciáran doesn’t pull away, lets the spirit or the shade or the demon touch his cheek with the back of his hand.

  
When Ciáran steps into the next room, his friends reappear, and his heart is lighter than it has ever been. 

* * *

Sunlight falls onto the urn, bathing it in light. The room is hushed and still, but warm and welcoming. Leliana is quietly overwhelmed, tears trailing down her face as she takes in the sight.   
Ciáran wonders how different his reaction would be if he found the ashes of the Creators. If he found the rubble of Arlathan.

  
He gives her a moment, and then steps forward to take a pinch of ashes. He drops them into an empty potion vial and tucks it into a pouch on his belt.

  
The long walk back to Haven is a quiet one. 

* * *

Ciáran decides that they will go to the Brecilian next. He misses his own people- Alistair and the others fast becoming a family in their own right, but Zevran is the only other elf and Ciáran has grown tired of getting mired in the world of the humans. It takes a moment to persuade Alistair that Redcliffe can wait, but Alistair trusts him now. They all do, it seems. More than that, Ciáran trusts them too. Trusts them enough to take them to his people, even if Zathrian’s clan isn’t his clan.

  
It is on the way there that everything changes. 

* * *

They are set upon in the middle of the night by shrieks. Alistair had been on watch, rousing them quick enough that they were able to hastily don armor and grab their weapons. The shrieks fall easily enough- with two mages trapping them in paralysis glyphs, the shrieks are easy pickings for the warriors and rogues.

  
When the dust settles, Tamlen is standing at the edge of camp, and Ciáran drops his weapons as he charges towards him. They crash together in a hug, Ciáran holding him hard enough to bruise. When he closes his eyes, it is easy to ignore the smell of the Taint and the black creeping through Tamlen’s veins. It is easy to ignore because Tamlen is here with him now, head tucked under his chin.

  
The illusion is shattered when Tamlen pulls away. Ciáran blinks opens his eyes and takes everything in- the black veins creeping up Tamlen’s body, the pale and gaunt eyes, the scabbed over scrapes and the bruises that litter his face.

  
“Lethallin, Ciáran, the Taint…it’s spreading. I can hear the song now,” Tamlen says, voice panicked and scared. Ciáran reaches out, wrapping his fingers in Tamlen’s.

  
“I can help,” he says, voice quiet and steady because for the first time since they found those stupid, stupid shemlen in the forest, he believes it.

  
“It’s too late,” Tamlen says, begs almost, and Ciáran feels something harden within him. He keeps his fingers wrapped up in Tamlen’s and pulls him back to the center of the camp.

  
“Alistair. How do I make him a Warden?” he asks, and there’s a determined set to his jaw because he’s let Tamlen down once and Creators, but it won’t happen again. Ciáran would bleed himself dry to save him.

  
“I…I don’t know, Ciáran. Duncan never…never taught me,” Alistair answers, eyes skirting around Tamlen and looking everywhere else.

  
Ciáran feels the bitter swell of disappointment rise up in him. Grief, too, because he’d already grieved Tamlen once and Alistair is telling him that he will have to do it again. And anger, at himself and at the world, because Tamlen deserved more than this.

  
He swallows his feelings down, fumbling for the necklace he’d worn since Ostagar. Blood kept from the Joining in a tiny vial. How much blood did it take, he wondered? How much would Tamlen need to chase the Blight from his veins?

  
“Alistair. The necklace you gave me, at Ostagar. Is it enough?” he demands, wrapping his fingers in the chain and yanking it from his neck. The blood in the pendant is viscous, gleaming a sluggish red in the firelight.

  
“I…No, not by itself, but I have one from my Joining. Together…I can’t promise anything, Ciáran, but it is a chance,” Alistair says. Ciáran looks at him from his place across the fire, and Alistair would swear that he could bring the Black City itself down around their shoulders.

  
“A chance is better than nothing,” Ciáran says, and he looks like he would fight that Maker himself to make it work. Alistair fumbles for a moment before he unclasps a vial from his own neck. He holds it out to him, the blood inside catching in the light of the fire.

  
Ciáran turns back to Tamlen, a triumphant smile on his face.

  
“Lethallin, if this doesn’t work…” Tamlen says, trailing off with a pained look. Ciáran wonders, for a moment, what the song sounds like.

  
“It will. And if it doesn’t, we’ll worry about it then,” Ciáran says, a promise hanging heavy in the air between them. He squeezes Tamlen’s hand one more time before he lets it go, turning his attention to the vials in his hand.

  
“Best drink them at the same time,” Alistair says, quiet behind them. Ciáran nods, prying the cork out of the first vial and passing it to Tamlen. It takes him another moment to pry the cork out of the second one, but he passes it to Tamlen too.

Tamlen hesitates for a moment. “Maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe you should just let me go, lethallin,” he says, voice whisper-soft.

  
“No. I lost you once, lethallin. Don’t make me lose you again,” Ciáran breathes. Tamlen frowns, looking down at the blood in the vials.

  
“Should we…say the words?” Alistair asks, and Ciáran doesn’t have to look at him to hear the frown in his voice.

  
“No. Best to just get it over with,” Tamlen says. He looks at the vials for another moment before he raises them to his mouth and tips them back. For a moment, nothing happens. And then Tamlen falls, Ciáran scrambling to catch him. His breathing is ragged but he still breathes.

  
The others disperse slowly. Ciáran stays, Tamlen’s head in his lap, fingers stroking through dirty blond hair. The empty vials lay forgotten, winking in the firelight. 

* * *

When Tamlen wakes, he has been moved inside a tent to a bedroll hastily thrown together. His armor had been taken off, and probably burned. It had been black with the corruption. He glances down, and the black in his veins is not gone, not yet, but it has retreated.

  
He thinks, for a moment, that he might weep. His Ciáran, doing the impossible. His Ciáran, saving the world but still saving him. His Ciáran, but is he even his anymore?

* * *

Ciáran is sitting by the fire when Tamlen steps out of the tent in the borrowed clothes he’d lain out next to him. It had taken so long for him to wake up that Ciáran had started to fear for the worst, but Alistair had stayed with him a while, once he’d coaxed him out to eat. Alistair had come out as Ciáran finished his meal, still so hungry even when the food tasted like ash and worry on his tongue. Alistair had told him, with a slow sly smile on his face, that the black corruption was disappearing.

  
It is Wynne that steps forward, guiding Tamlen down to the nearby river with a towel and all the soap she could carry. It is Wynne that sits him down next to the fire an entire hour later, hair dripping wet but blessedly clean, and gives him a bowl of porridge. It is Alistair that tells him about the changes he might notice- increased hunger, sensing the darkspawn, dreams of the archdemon.

  
It is Ciáran who tells Tamlen that they are on their way to Zathrian’s clan in the forest. It sits unspoken between them, that they are going home (even if Zathrian’s clan isn’t their clan, it will still put them back among the People, and both of them have been away far too long). It is Ciáran that disappears into the tent with him to tell him what he had missed so far.

  
It is Ciáran who finally falls asleep, head on Tamlen’s lap, a night of interrupted sleep behind him. It is Tamlen who reaches out, drawing the tent flaps together more firmly, as if it could ward off any of the companions outside that might wake him up. It is Tamlen who shifts them both until they are curled up, back to back. It is comfortable and familiar, and Tamlen finds that it is not long before he drifts off too. 

* * *

Returning to the Brecilian forest is returning home. It is, in the end, bittersweet. Ciáran is glad to be among his own people again, feels like it is giving him a moment’s respite against the gathering storm of the outside world, but it is a double-edged sword. It is a stark reminder that he is not who he had been when he left home, that he is now a thing of jagged edges and too-tight smiles.   
Tamlen, at least, seems to enjoy it. The black of the taint has left his veins. To the outside eye, he is free from corruption. Still, he is sickly pale and too thin. His armor is too large and his arms shake when he pulls back his bow. The months of separation had not been kind to him. Still, coming home seems to have given him a second wind.

  
Zathrian’s clan welcomes them warmly, wary of the others in the party, but still cordial and kind and polite. He laughs an apology at how much food the Wardens of the party will consume, but one of the hahrens, an old woman with a kind smile, swats at him with a dish towel and tells him to stop being silly.

  
It is later that night when Zathrian himself comes to speak with them. The situation is dire, but it is something that Ciáran can handle, especially now that Tamlen is by his side. Before he retires to his tent, he goes to the rest of the clan. He asks the same question a dozen times over. “We’re headed into the forest tomorrow. Is there anything I could do to help you while I’m there?”

  
His efforts earn him a to-do list as long as his forearm, but Ciáran doesn’t mind. These are his people, after all.

  
He sets out the next morning, Tamlen falling into step beside him. If he closed his eyes, Ciáran could pretend that nothing has changed. They are still young and still with their clan. They still dream about the world beyond the aravels. But Ciáran has things to do, and he cannot close his eyes and pretend. Instead, he forges ahead, throwing himself into the fights with the werewolves.

* * *

The talking oak tree was strange, but Ciáran wasn’t exactly surprised. He had seen stranger things in this forest, after all, than a rhyming sylvan. Merrill had explained it once by telling him the veil in the forest was unusually thin. 

* * *

The Oak is the most exciting thing until they come upon Swiftrunner once again. The werewolf challenges them, and Ciáran responds, his own hackles raised. The fight that breaks out is not unexpected, but it is not easy, either. With everyone at his back, Ciáran lets it make him cocky.

  
And then Swiftrunner is there out of nowhere, claws raking down Ciáran’s side, tearing through his armor like butter. He lets out a choked scream of rage, and then Witherfang is there, jumping between them, howling so loudly that Ciáran has to drop his sword to clap his hands over his ears. When the sound fades, the wolves are gone, and he finds that he is losing entirely too much blood.

  
“Shit,” he swears, and he notices the blackness encroaching on his vision just a little too late. It claims him without resistance. 

* * *

When Ciáran wakes, it is evening. Outside the canvas of the tent, he can see a flickering fire. He groans, one hand coming to his head. His mouth feels dry and fuzzy.

  
“You’re awake!” Tamlen says, and Ciáran jumps. He hadn’t noticed Tamlen sitting cross-legged on the ground next to his bedroll.

  
“How long was I out?” he asks, pushing himself into a sitting position.

  
“A few hours. It was what, just after noon when we got into that fight? It’s dusk now. Your mage, Wynne? She acted quick enough that you should be fine tomorrow,” he says, holding out a waterskin. Ciáran drinks slowly, knows he’ll make himself sick of he downs it all at once like he wants.

  
“Have you been here the entire time?” Ciáran asks, whisper-quiet. Tamlen swallows hard before he answers, looks away and won’t quite meet his eyes.

  
“I helped set up the tent first,” he says, and then he stands and sweeps out of the tent. Ciáran lets him go, lays back down and stares up at the tent canvas until he falls asleep again. 

* * *

True to Tamlen’s word, he is fine the next morning. There’s a wicked set of scars on his side, and Ciaran thinks it could have been much worse than what it was.

  
And hey, he’s heard that scars are attractive. He only wonders, for the briefest of moments, if Tamlen thinks they are. 

* * *

As good as it was to spend time among his people again, Ciáran is glad to leave the forest behind. There is far too much left for them to do, and Alistair had sidled up to him and asked in a whisper-soft voice about Redcliffe. He has to agree- they have the ashes to cure whatever ails the arl. It is time to make that trip. 

* * *

That night, they set up camp on the side of the road. The weather is good, but there is a chill in the air that speaks of the coming winter. They all move their tents a little close to the campfire in response.

  
“It is cold, my dear Warden. Why don’t you come join me in my tent, and let me keep you warm?” Zevran asks. Ciáran doesn’t jump, long since used to the assassin appearing from nowhere, often wrapping his arms around him and propping his chin on his shoulder.

  
He looks up across the campfire, and Tamlen meets his eyes. There’s something unreadable in his friend’s gaze, but Ciáran has a few revelations.

  
The first is that he does not love Zevran. It is not a surprise, not really. They had not had such a long time together and much of their time together was spent on more carnal activities.

  
The second is harder to swallow. He has been trying to use Zevran as a replacement for Tamlen. As a way to fill in the hole in his chest that Tamlen had left behind.

  
The third realization is that Tamlen has had no idea that this is the case.

  
“I think we need to talk,” Ciáran says, voice quiet. The air between them tastes like an ending, and Ciaran doesn’t think he regrets it. 

* * *

That night, Zevran and Ciáran sleep in separate tents. 

* * *

Ciáran does not like the undead. They are easy enough to kill- Wynne and Morrigan use their fire spells, and Tamlen and Leliana have fire arrows. Many of the undead fall to them before Ciáran even has to raise his sword.

  
But there is something unsettling about it, knowing that they used to be people. 

* * *

When Bann Teagan follows Isolde, Ciáran knows in his gut that this will not end well.

  
He does not expect that he will kill a child.

  
Isolde’s scream lingers in his ears long after she has fallen quiet, silent sobs wracking her body. He does not think he will ever clean the blood off of his hands.

  
It is Wynne who takes the ashes from his belt and steps into the arl’s private quarters.

* * *

Eamon wakes up and gives them rooms in the castle for the night with a too-thin smile. He tells Ciáran that he is grateful for his life, grateful to be awake, but his eyes skitter over the place where his son would have stood, and he does not enter the hall where servants scrub at bloodstains.

  
Ciáran disappears into his quarters so he doesn’t have to face the brittle gratitude. 

* * *

He does not expect the knock at his door. He drags himself over to answer it. When it swings open to reveal Leliana, he is surprised yet again. He had thought perhaps that it would be Tamlen standing on the other side.

The third surprise comes from a box that Leliana wordlessly holds out to him. He takes it, brow furrowed, and at an insistent gesture, he opens it to look inside.

  
The book is full of paper, paints, and pencils. He looks up at her, a question in his eyes.

  
“I noticed that you liked to draw. I thought perhaps, after today…I thought you might like to have some real supplies,” she says, and her voice is just as warm as it always is when she talks to him.

  
“Ma serannas,” he breathes. Leliana gives him a brief hug before she retreats.

  
Ciáran stares down at the box. It must have cost a handful of sovereigns at least. He hadn’t even noticed that Leliana had seen him drawing. 

* * *

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night, and with the moon high in the sky, Ciáran finally gives up. He thinks that it is time to go talk to Tamlen. He pads down the empty hallways until he finds the right room. He hesitates for a moment before rapping his knuckles against the worn wood of the door.

  
A dozen seconds pass. Just when Ciáran has turned to go, the door cracks open, and Tamlen is standing there. Ciáran can see the flickering shadows dancing across the floor behind him from a freshly banked fire.

  
“Can we talk?” he asks, voice coming in a rush, and Tamlen nods, stepping aside to let him into the room.

  
“Of course,” he answers, and there’s something in his voice that makes Ciáran want to pull him close and kiss him. He is so tired of regretting things.

  
“Zevran and I…It was a casual thing, but it’s over,” he says, words still coming too fast, like he’s afraid he’ll never get them out if he speaks any slower.

  
“…Why?” Tamlen asks, leaning against the wooden door.

  
“Because he isn’t you,” Ciaran answers, and it’s painfully honest and a little raw. He doesn’t know where they’ll go from here or if they’ll go anywhere at all, but with the confession lingering in the air between them, he finds it’s a little easier to breathe.

  
“Oh,” Tamlen answers, eloquently. “I’m not sure…I…I still feel that way about you too?”

  
“Oh. Okay. That’s…good. Better than it could be,” he says, and even if things are unsure and unsteady between them it is better than it was.

  
“Do you want to just…see what happens next?” Tamlen asks. Ciáran edges closer to the door. He’s sure he’s blushing to the tips of his ears.

  
“I…yeah,” he says, and Tamlen ducks his head. In the firelight, Ciáran can see that he’s blushing too.

  
“I…good. See you tomorrow?” he asks, cringing at himself. Creators, why was this suddenly so hard?

  
“Yeah. Tomorrow,” Tamlen agrees, and before Ciáran can slip out of the door he leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek.

  
Well. That could have gone worse. 

* * *

They leave for Orzammar the next day. Things are good between them. Zevran had taken the breakup with grace, and Tamlen seems happier. Ciáran certainly is.

  
Three days later, he has a nightmare.

  
_He is back in the camp. They have just found Tamlen, and he has just given him the blood in the vials. Tamlen drinks, but this time his eyes roll back in his head like Daveth’s and Ciáran is all alone again._

  
_The dream morphs and shifts, and now he is in the camp and the shrieks have just died and Ciáran slides a knife in between Tamlen’s ribs instead of trying to save him._

  
When he wakes, he looks down at his hands and expects to see them red with blood. He shivers, slipping out of his tent. Tamlen’s is right next to his, and quietly, he slips into it.

  
“Ciáran? Is something wrong?” Tamlen asks, waking up. He hadn’t always been such a light sleeper, and Ciáran wonders if he was even sleeping at all.

  
“Had a bad dream,” he mutters, and Tamlen just shifts, making a place for him. Ciáran slips under his arm.

  
This time, his sleep is dreamless. 

* * *

Orzammar is a strange city. It is entirely underground, perpetually warm from the lava that lights the city. Ciáran wonders idly if anyone has ever fallen into it. He suspects that would be a gruesome death indeed. In the market, he finds a golden mirror that makes him think of Morrigan. Tamlen slips away to distract her while he buys it. 

* * *

He is in the great city of stone for all of an hour before he is sick of the politics. The archdemon is sure to be gathering strength, and he himself is so close to gathering the armies.

  
He sides with Bhelen. He’s half convinced he picked at random. Tamlen thinks it’s funny. 

* * *

Of course the stupid nobles needed more for his support to mean anything. He goes through the tasks Bhelen sets out for him with a ruthless efficiency.

  
He only hopes the city is less annoying when it is time to come die down here. 

* * *

It feels like months pass before he leaves the Deep Roads. When he finally stands on the surface again, cold winter winds tugging his hair, it feels as though it has been an age.

  
At least he can turn his sights to Denerim now. 

* * *

Ciáran was angry enough coming into the Landsmeet. He played nice to get the support of the nobles, and he’d suggested that Anora marry Alistair. It would keep her on the throne while appeasing the traditionalist who wanted the Theirin bloodline to continue, and he thought it quite clever if he were honest with himself.

  
But when he comes face to face with Loghain, who pretends he hadn’t spent the last year calling for Ciáran’s head, who pretends he didn’t quit the field and leave Cailan to die, who pretends he had not been selling slaves to Tevinter, his rage becomes a living thing.

  
Eamon is the one who suggests a duel. Alistair is eager, but Ciáran is the one who takes it. He cuts Loghain down with brutal efficiency. Anora isn’t happy, but he can make peace with that. Riordan seems to disapprove as well, gently chiding him about needing more Wardens now. He only gestures to Tamlen as if to say he has already done his part. 

* * *

Morrigan approaches him with the ritual, and the feeling of victory slips from his fingers. So close to the end, and it was this or death.

  
He had just barely gotten Tamlen back. He did not want to lose him again, not over this, not even if it meant his death.

  
Morrigan had had the foresight to tell Tamlen.

  
Tamlen insists that he just wants Ciáran to survive. Morrigan promises it won’t be so bad, even if neither of them really want to do it.

  
Eventually, Ciáran relents. 

* * *

It is near dawn when they finally dress. Morrigan spends more time on the belt buckles on her skirt than Ciáran does with all his armor.

  
“You know, I think, if it is a boy, I shall name him Kieran,” she announces, taking a moment to adjust the necklace she wears. It is one that Ciáran himself had given her.

  
“That sounds an awfully lot like my name,” he points out, double checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  
“Tis the point, my friend,” she says, her voice impossibly soft. He stops, meeting her golden gaze.

  
No matter what happens, Ciáran is confident that he has the best fighting at his side. 

* * *

It is Ciáran who strikes the final blow of the archdemon. His gaze finds Morrigan as light spills from the tainted dragon.

  
He loses her in the chaos that follows, but he is alive and Tamlen is alive and it would seem that the ritual had worked.

  
That night, when the celebration has died down to a low roar, Ciáran curls around Tamlen and weeps tears of relief.

  
The battle is won and the day is saved, and Ciáran hadn’t lost a damned soul doing it. 

* * *

They stay for Alistair’s coronation. His friend is uncomfortable with the attention, but Ciáran thinks he will grow into it. If anyone can, it is Alistair.

  
With that done, the rest of the world stretches out before him. This, he thinks, is what he had had dreamed of. The horizon calling to him, Tamlen by his side, and nobody in the world to stop them from loving each other.

  
First, though, Ciáran thinks it is time to go home.

* * *

They sail across the Waking Sea. The clan had chosen to set up camp near Sundermount. Merrill greets them with a quiet gasp and tears in her eyes, her arms thrown around their necks. The rest of the clan greets them just as warmly.

  
And when Ciáran pulls Tamlen into a kiss that leaves them breathless, nobody says anything. Children are important for the Dalish, but if anyone deserves happiness more, it is Ciáran and Tamlen.   
Marethari performs their bonding ritual before they leave. It is a quiet thing that happens as the sun sets over the horizon.

  
Ciáran looks down at the worn fabric that binds his hands to Tamlen, and together they look up at the golden horizon.

  
Ciáran doesn’t know what will come next, but if there is a future to be had, he will walk into it gladly with Tamlen by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome :)


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